Educating Ichabod
by happycabbage75
Summary: Post Pilot. Acquainting her new partner with the modern world is a work in progress.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just playing.

Post Pilot. Acquainting her new partner with the modern world is a work in progress.

* * *

"Lieutenant... Are you entirely certain this is meant to be eaten in such a state?"

Abbie watched as Crane tugged at the wrapping around his fast food hamburger, his long fingers carefully peeling back the edges as if he were removing the wrapping around a bomb. Ok, sure the burger looked a little squished, a little lopsided... but it was a burger. It was just the way these things worked.

"It's fine," Abbie said, a little impatience seeping into her tone, only partially due to her exhaustion. "Just eat it."

"In my day, beef came from cows." He frowned down at the flattened burger distastefully. "This... I am not sure cattle were involved in producing this."

"Trust me. Ronald McDonald raised that cow just for you. Now, eat it."

"You know this man?"

Abbie didn't even bat an eye. "Yeah. He's a good guy."

After the seemingly never-ending succession of losing a friend and mentor, chasing and being chased by a headless _thing_, being shot at, deciding her new companion might not be completely insane, finding out she was a Witness with a capital W, discovering her fellow policeman in a cell with his head still attached, but so not how it was supposed to be, followed up by a mountain of paperwork, interviews, witness statements (not with a capital w this time), general stress, fear, and confusion... She'd decided some food was in order.

The closest place had been a fast food joint, and since Crane was incapable of functioning on his own, here they were, sitting together in a corner booth, each with a tray holding a burger, fries and coke. She took a sip from her coke and immediately relaxed, while Crane still looked like an alien who was visiting a strange land. He was too tall for one thing, and had been forced to fold himself into the booth. His clothing, of course, and hair also made him stick out like a sore thumb. They were definitely drawing their fair share of odd looks.

Abbie's first clue that this had been a bad idea was when they'd stopped in front of the counter to order. Crane had briefly looked around the restaurant, which to her looked like every other fast food place on the planet: Tile floors, booths, a counter to one side for the drink dispensers, another counter for napkins, straws, condiments, etc. Elevator type music was playing from speakers somewhere, workers were milling behind the counter at various tasks, and all around them was the scent of fried food.

Once he had surveyed the "establishment," as he insisted on calling it, he had turned his eyes to the menu board, studying it as if his life depended on it.

"You know what you want?" Abbie had asked.

"I presume that poultry is involved somehow with the Mc. Chicken." He made it two separate words. "Other than that I fear I am at a loss." He frowned, still looking at the glowing board of food offerings.

Abbie rolled her eyes, but didn't reply. Instead she merely said, "I got this," and stepped up to the bored teenager waiting to take their order. Crane had remained silent, listening and following her as she went through the mindless routine she'd been through hundreds of times before - Order, wait on the trays, fill the cups, get lids, straws, etc, find an unoccupied booth. Crane had watched her every move, listening, drinking in the information with rapt attention despite how tired he had to be, and Abbie had been struck yet again by how strange this must all be to him.

Which led to his most current question. "What, may I ask, is that... concoction you are placing on your meal?"

Abby looked up to see that Crane was staring at her tray. She'd just torn open a packet of ketchup with her teeth and was squeezing the contents out for her fries. "Ketchup. You want some?"

"I... What is it?" He clearly did not like admitting as much but had no way to get around it.

"Ketchup," she said again. "Uhh... Tomatoes, all mashed up into a sauce."

"Tomat-" His eyes widened in alarm and his hand flashed out grabbing her wrist and stopping her from raising a ketchup-covered french fry to her lips.

"I'd suggest you let go of me," she said sharply. "Right now. I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."

Crane seemed completely undeterred. "Are you mad?"

"Not yet, but getting there. As a matter of fact, I'm about to hit pissed off any second."

He pursed his lips in annoyance at her deliberate misunderstanding. "Are you out of your senses, Miss Mills? You cannot eat that. Wolf peaches are members of the Nightshade family. Belladonna..." When Abbie just continued to look at him, he added, "They are _poisonous_," as if speaking to a simpleton.

Abbie sighed and dropped the french fry back on her tray. Her companion immediately released her. He sat back and sighed as well, although his seemed to be in relief.

"I know I'm gonna regret this, but what are you talking about?" she asked. "Tomatoes are perfectly fine. I have no clue what a... wolf... whatever you said is." As if to show him, she pulled her hamburger open and showed him the tomatoes that were on her sandwich as well. "Everybody eats them, Crane. They're fine."

"It is well known that they should not be eaten. They are deadly, not to mention they are used in the black arts." Crane frowned fiercely, although she could tell he was beginning to falter in his certainty. Too much had changed for him, far too quickly, and the ground beneath him could crumble at any moment. "Although a tolerable looking fruit, wolf peaches are to be avoided at all c-"

He actually gasped as Abbie grabbed her ketchup covered fry and popped it into her mouth before he could stop her. "It's fine," she said plainly. "Not poison. Just ketchup."

"But-"

Abbie sighed again. She seemed to be doing that a lot since she'd met Ichabod Crane. She pulled out her phone and typed in "wolf peaches," which was quite possibly one of the silliest searches she'd ever run. To her surprise several sites came up showing the history of the tomato and how it had only been in the last couple of hundred years that it had been accepted as edible. She scrolled back up to the top of the page and handed Crane her phone. "Here. Read." She knew he had been watching her closely, as he accepted the phone delicately, studied the screen as if he had been handed something dangerous, then used his finger to scroll down as she had done. It took him a few seconds to get the hang of it, but he was a quick study. He raised an eyebrow very briefly at the workings of the phone, toying with it, before focusing more seriously on the topic at hand.

After several glorious moments of silence, which allowed her to continue to eat peacefully, Crane nodded and handed the phone back to her. "I see. I must beg your pardon, Miss Mills."

Abbie shrugged. "No problem. Now eat your food before it gets cold."

He eyed his meal dubiously, but after having already been wrong once, Crane chose to remain silent. He picked up a packet of ketchup and mimicked what she had done. He paused momentarily before dipping a french fry into the ketchup, then once again before quickly popping it into his mouth as if deciding to do it before he could think better of it.

Abbie watched as he chewed it carefully. "Feeling poisoned?" she asked, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.

Crane huffed in frustration. "I am so pleased I can be such a source of amusement to you, Lieutenant. What can be more amusing, after all, than to sneer at the backward man who was trying to save your life?"

Abbie almost felt bad. Almost. But she was too tired. "Right. Rule of thumb? If they're serving it in a restaurant, odds are it's edible."

Crane looked down at his smashed hamburger and raised an eyebrow as if to ask "Even this?" It suddenly seemed so funny that Abbie couldn't help laughing out loud. After all, how many times had she thought the same thing when looking at a flattened fast food thing that looked nothing like it did on the commercial? When her laughter began to reach hysterical proportions, Crane reached across the booth and put his hand on her shoulder, a far gentler movement than when he'd grabbed her wrist. She also noted that it was completely unfair that he was so tall and his arms so long that he could easily reach across the booth to comfort her.

"Are your well, Miss Mills?" he asked gently.

The laughter left as quickly as it had arrived, leaving with it the sudden desire to weep. Her friend and mentor was dead, decapitated. She was lost, confused, and possibly going insane. Abbie took a deep calming breath. "I'm fine," she said, trying to sound much steadier than she felt. When Crane seemed to hesitate, she added, "Really."

He pursed his lips again and withdrew his hand, but she had the feeling he understood all too well what was going on with her. Stupid over-smart revolutionary soldier. He'd probably seen a few post-battlefield breakdowns in his time.

Crane didn't believe her, but he didn't say anything else either. Instead, he picked up his questionable sandwich and began to eat. He was giving her time and Abbie liked him a little better for it.

They quickly finished their meal with only a minor blip when Crane discovered the unexpected effect of carbonation when he tried his coke. Abbie rose first and Crane followed, trailing after her as they walked outside. He jumped when Abbie used the fob to unlock the car and it gave a faint honk. It wasn't the first time, but it still seemed to unnerve him.

Abbie thought about the plan to put him in a hotel for the night and all the modern amenities he would encounter. It seemed her own need to sleep would have to wait just a little longer.

"C'mon, Crane. We gotta stop at the drug store. We're gonna need some post-its."

* * *

No kidding about wolf peaches! Do a search and you'll run into this anecdote:

On September 26th, 1830, Colonel Robert Gibbon Johnson stood on the steps of the courthouse in Salem, Massachusetts with a basket of potentially toxic fruit. Despite warnings that its poison would turn his blood to acid, he told several hundred cheering spectators that he planned to eat the entire basket - and survive.  
"The foolish Colonel will foam and froth at the mouth," his own doctor shouted, "and double over with appendicitis. All that oxalic acid - one dose and he is dead. He might even be exposing himself to brain fever. Should he by some unlikely chance survive his skin will stick to his stomach and cause cancer."  
Johnson, wearing black, ate the entire basket and indeed survived.


	2. Chapter 2

_This story was supposed to be a one time thing, but a thought popped up, such as it is..._

* * *

Abbie and Crane both looked up at the sound of a commotion coming down the main hall of the Sherriff's Office toward the office they were using. The noise got louder and louder as it approached. One voice was female and there were male voices as well, although she couldn't tell how many. They were all shouting simultaneously, making it mostly unintelligible except for a few swear words, "No," and "shut up."

The noise reached a fever pitch just as Morales and a uniformed officer half-pushed, half-pulled a tiny spit of a woman through the door into the adjoining area where all the detectives' desks were. She was fighting tooth and nail and the two men were struggling to keep their hold on her, all the while shouting at her to stop resisting.

"Enough!" Crane stood as he bellowed the word and everyone in the room came to a screeching halt, all eyes turning toward the man who was a head taller than almost all of them.

Abbie knew how they were feeling. Crane had used the same technique when she and Jenny had been fighting. It was a quick reminder that only weeks before, Crane had been an officer shouting orders over the noise of battle.

"Butt out, Crane," Morales snapped. "Go back to doing whatever you guys do." His disdain was written all over him and Abbie had a sudden desire to smack the expression off her ex's face.

For his part, Crane completely ignored Morales. He strode out of the office they'd been using as their research center for the morning and stopped in front of the woman Morales had been dragging into the room. She was tiny and had to crane her neck to look up at him, and Abbie thought it must be about what it looked like when she was standing beside him, except Abbie wore boots with heels and this woman had lost her shoes somewhere, probably in the struggle to get her into the building.

Abbie had actually dealt with the woman before. She was one of the local working girls and dressed the part. Her skirt was too short and her shirt was too low cut, especially for the cooler weather, and all of it was too tight. More noticeable, however, was the look on her face. She had the haggard, old-before-her time look that many of the people they dealt with had. Abbie knew the woman was about the same age as her, but she looked ten years older.

Crane seemed completely oblivious, and Abbie wondered if he could tell the difference between a hooker and any of the other women he saw. To him, as he had griped on several occasions, modern women seemed to enjoy "cavorting about the countryside half-naked."

Crane smiled down at the woman, very slightly, and said, "Forgive them, Miss...?"

The woman gave him a look like he might be crazy, but finally said, "My name's Lester." She jerked her arm out of Morales' hand. The detective reached out again, but Crane deftly blocked it.

"I said butt out, Crane," Morales snapped. "Leave this to the big boys, why don't you?" He made to grab the woman again, and once again Crane blocked his hand.

Abbie immediately jumped to her feet and hustled to get between them because she knew there was no way Luke, or for that matter any cop, was going to let that stand. "Ok, guys. Break it up. Crane, why don't we let these guys..." Abbie trailed off as she realized Crane wasn't paying any attention to her either.

"Forgive them, Miss Lester. They have forgotten how to treat a lady. It is no wonder you are so perturbed."

"Miss" Lester's eyes widened in surprise and even though Abbie was pretty sure the woman had no clue what "perturbed" meant, she seemed to get the gist. She glared at Morales. "Yeah. These two as- jerks don't know squat about treating me right."

Crane actually bowed just slightly. "Indeed. If you would be so kind as to sit, Miss Lester?" He looked at Morales to ask where he wanted her to go. Luke clenched his jaw in frustration, but finally pointed toward the chair by his desk. "Excellent," Crane said, and gestured graciously to the woman to accompany him the few feet to the area where the detectives' desks were all clumped together.

Preening at the attention, plus enjoying getting one over on the cops who'd brought her in, Miss Lester sauntered her way over to the chair in a terrible mockery of a ladylike walk. Crane seemed to pay no notice, however. He walked beside her as if he were accompanying the Queen herself to her chair. Once the woman had settled in, throwing her enormous, tatty purse on Luke's desk, Crane once again bowed his head. "A pleasure, Miss Lester."

He passed Morales, clearly trying not to smile while Luke gave him another glare for good measure. Abbie just shook her head, as she often did at Crane's antics. It was a bad idea for him to keep needling Luke, but she had to admit, it was the most fun she'd had all morning. Granted, they'd spent the entire morning staring at property tax records, so that wasn't saying much.

Abbie sat back down and Crane joined her, immediately picking up the paper he'd been studying before the commotion had started. "Have fun?" Abbie asked dryly.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered just as dryly.

"Sure you don't," she said.

"I merely stepped in to stop such an unholy racket, not that modern life isn't a constant assault on a man's senses, but I have my limits."

"Sure," Abbie shot back. "It was just the noise. Had nothing to do with the woman."

"The lady was being manhandled," he replied smoothly. "It was unnecessary."

"Right." Abbie gave a derisive snort. "A lady."

Crane huffed. "If you think I am unaware that she is most likely a woman of ill repute, you would be wrong."

That stopped Abbie in her proverbial tracks. "You know she's a hooker?"

"While I am unfamiliar with that term," he sighed, "I am acquainted with women of her profession, Miss Mills. It is one of the oldest professions, after all, not to mention I was a soldier before I arrived in this time. Camp followers made their living by moving with the troops to provide for the soldiers... needs. Are such women not common today when a large group of men are gathered for military purposes?"

"Such women are common because men are pigs," Abbie replied.

Crane cleared his throat in discomfort. "As you say, Miss Mills. Not all men behave as they ought around a woman, especially a poor, uneducated one who has no other means to earn her living than her own body. That, Lieutenant, is why I stepped in."

Abbie couldn't help a smile. "You're a softie, Crane."

He frowned, unsure if she was insulting him, but his expression lightened, taking his cue from her as he so often did. She was amused, so he decided not to take offense.

His eye was drawn across the room once again toward Miss Lester who had pulled a lipstick out of her oversized purse. She liberally applied the too-bright shade to her lips, then tucked it back in her bag.

Abbie glanced at Crane who was still staring quizzically although there was nothing else to see of interest. "What?"

"The..." He made an odd gesture with his hands. "Umm..." He pointed toward his lips.

"Lipstick."

"I... have noticed that the use of such things is common, but..."

"I'm guessing not much in the way of cosmetics when you were around before."

Crane shook his head. "It was not considered seemly. That is not to say it was not done. That..." He once again made the odd gesture with his hand and Abbie realized it was the lipstick tube itself that was puzzling him.

"Hang on." Abbie rose and went down the hall. The Sherriff's Office had a small gym in the building in case any of them wanted to work out in their off time. She had a locker there and kept a small stash of necessities. She wasn't really a girly-girl, but a little lipstick never hurt anybody. She grabbed hers, walked back to sit beside Crane and handed it to him.

"Pull the top off," she explained, "and then the other end twists."

Clearly fascinated, he did as she directed, and much like a small child with a toy, twisted the lipstick up and down several times, entranced. "It is truly ingenious," he finally said.

Abbie chuckled very slightly. "It's just lipstick, Crane. It's not rocket science."

Crane paused, probably confused by the second part of the phrase, but finally shook his head in disagreement. "It is the small things," he replied, "that often surprise me. They are of so little consequence to anyone now, but truly they are marvels. Someone saw the need for this contraption and worked to make it for no other reason than for women to beautify themselves." He shook his head again. "I never cease to be amazed."

Abbie shook her head. "You think that's something, wait 'til you see an eyelash curler."

"Why would anyone..." Crane laughed quietly at his own question. "Nevermind. I fear you shall never make a 'modern' man of me, Miss Mills."

Abbie tilted her head to one side, looking at him. "Maybe not," she said. "But you're comin' along, Crane." She frowned as if in thought. "Give me another year or two and you'll be ready to party like it's 1899."

Crane sighed, although a slight smile also played at his lips. He was probably getting used to being the straight man in their conversations. "Most amusing, Lieutenant."

Abbie shrugged and then laughed outright. "I thought so."

Crane handed the lipstick back to her. "As always, I am so glad that I can bring some levity to your life."

"Come on, Crane." Abbie stood and he did as well. "I'm tired of looking at this stuff. We can work on it tomorrow and I feel like taking the afternoon off."

"But-"

She nodded toward the door and began walking that way. "You want to know about things? Well, I'm going to introduce you to the national pastime. It's a little old-school, but it never gets old."

"Oh?" Crane's eyebrows rose and his eyes sparkled with curiosity.

As they passed Luke's desk Abbie noticed Crane gave another polite nod in Miss Lester's direction. She smiled and, for just a second, lost a few of those extra years that were weighing her down.

"We need to get you a baseball cap," Abbie thought out loud.

Crane's eyes narrowed. "I will not-"

"Fine." Abbie rolled her eyes. "I need one. Just come on. I'll teach you to yell at the ump."

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_


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